


A Hardboiled Assassin

by 3jarsofbees



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Inexcusable puns, Low-stakes intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:29:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9695711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jarsofbees/pseuds/3jarsofbees
Summary: When the party stops for a drink in some crummy corner of rural Ferelden, Zevran and Tabris find themselves embroiled in the most low-stakes, intrigue-less assassination plot of all time.Part of a Valentine's Day fic exchange. What's more romantic than dumb capers, am I right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the /r/dragonage Valentine's fic exchange. Our fearless leader Nehn is courtesy of [Nehntheelf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehntheelf) a.k.a. /u/theswedishtrex. Thanks for letting me borrow her!

* * *

Nehn shielded her eyes against the sunlight, squinting ahead. The road stretched endlessly away in both directions, mud and pastures surrounding them on all sides. They had been trudging through this dreary scenery for what seemed like years already.

She looked back, then—her three companions were following her faithfully, but none of them had said a single entertaining word in some time. She supposed this landscape was not particularly stimulating for conversation.

“Hey, Zev,” Nehn said.

Zevran had been gazing off into the passing fields—he turned at the sound of her voice, then jogged up a few steps to her side. “Yes? What can I do for you, my dear Grey Warden?”

“About that,” she said. “You do know I have a name, right?”

“Do you really think I would repeatedly bed someone without bothering to learn her name? I am not that much of an animal, surely.”

“Then why do you always call me ‘Grey Warden’?”

“It is your title, is it not? A commanding title, speaking of great power and influence! I find the idea of it to be rather irresistible.”

“Well, maybe you hadn’t heard, but I don’t think it’s a very powerful title right now. To most of Ferelden it just means ‘those traitors who need to be hunted down’—sometimes by Antivan assassins...”

“Ah, yes. The title of a traitorous killer! I like that as well. It feels so... familiar, somehow.”

“So, are you saying you like me because I remind you of you?” Nehn asked. “Or does the idea of traitorous killers just make you homesick?”

“That is actually not a bad way of looking at it!” Zevran said, throwing her a warm smile. “After all, you are beautiful and deadly... just like Antiva.”

“And... often covered in assassins?”

“If that is an invitation, mi amor, then I gladly accept it.”

“I only understood half of that metaphor,” Alistair called up from behind them, “and I already wish that I didn’t.”

“Then why are you eavesdropping?” Nehn asked.

“Because he is intrigued beyond measure, no doubt,” Zevran said.

“No. I’m not. No. Not at all.”

From the back of the group, Wynne let out a particularly maternal sigh. “You poor dear. Having these two about is quite the shocking education for you, isn’t it?”

“What? No it isn’t.”

“Oh, I like that!” Zevran said. “Yes... our display of affections is simply a thoughtful public service for our innocent companion here. We are so helpful, aren’t we?”

“Where else is he supposed to learn, Wynne?” Nehn asked. “In the _streets?_ ”

“But we are in the streets,” Alistair said. “Isn’t this a street?”

“It’s obviously a road, Alistair. Keep up.”

“Oh, excuse me.”

Wynne just shook her head. “Such a shame...”

After leading them past several more bare pastures, the road at last wound around a bend and into a sparse little town, where an optimistic sign proclaimed: _WELCOME TO DAMPSTON!_ This place was made up of some scattered shacks, fields, and chicken coops, and a shambly tavern perched on the side of the road. The tavern had a single lonely lantern hanging by the door, with a sign reading _Eggs for sale_ in the window.

“Nehn,” Alistair said, in a frantic whisper. “Nehn. Tavern. Nehn.”

“A seat and a drink might be nice,” Zevran said. “What does our fearless leader say?”

“Why, after all this walking, I think we’ve earned ourselves a break,” Nehn said.

“You three go on in,” Wynne said. “I think I’ll take a look around here. Perhaps some of the farmers might have some extra supplies for us.”

“We can help you find supplies later, Wynne,” Nehn said. “Don’t you want to sit for a while?”

“I would prefer a little time to myself,” Wynne said with a smile. “Nothing personal. I’m just an old and cantankerous woman who needs her space.”

“Old? Nonsense,” Zevran said. “Why, you are positively the loveliest—”

“Case in point,” Wynne said. “I shall meet you here later.”

Alistair, Zevran and Nehn pushed ahead into the tavern, which held a single dim, sticky room with a few shoddy tables and mismatched chairs. Other than the bartender—whose face veritably lit up at the sight of them—there was just one other man here, sitting half-collapsed at the bar.

“Welcome! Welcome,” the bartender said. “Please come in! What can I offer you?”

“Afternoon,” Nehn said, approaching the bar with her companions in tow. “Could we get a few ales, please, and something to eat?”

“How about three bowls of our house stew?” the bartender asked. “Yesterday’s stew was quite good! ...Is. It is still good. I mean, I’m sure it is.”

“Uh... sure, I guess we’ll take it.”

As they handed some coins over, the man sitting at the bar seemed to register their presence for the first time. He turned blearily their way, his head barely propped up on one meaty fist—then he narrowed his eyes, looking Nehn and Zevran up and down. At last, he muttered, “Bloody knife-ears...”

The bartender froze, terrified.

“I’m sorry, _what_ was that?” Nehn asked, turning round. “You want to say that again?”

“Now, now, my dear, let’s not be so hasty,” Zevran said. “Both of us _are_ carrying two rather _sharp_ and _deadly_ knives on our backs.” He lazily drew both his daggers. “Perhaps this man saw them and was simply... confused?”

Nehn paused, then unsheathed her own daggers, looking back and forth between them. “Hmmm. That _is_ confusing.”

The drunk man stared at this assortment of daggers, wide-eyed, for a moment, then turned right back to his drink, burying his face in it without another word.

“Ah, excellent,” Zevran said. “It is always so nice to clear up these little miscommunications.”

“V-very charitable of you, my friends,” the bartender said. “Please have a seat. I’ll bring your drinks and your stew...”

“Nice one,” Alistair said as they made their way to the table farthest from the bar. “What a twat.”

“For an assassin, you can be awfully peaceful sometimes,” Nehn said.

Zevran laughed. “And why would I waste my many years of training on a man who has already drunk himself half to death? Let him do his own dirty work.”

The bartender edged over, then, setting down three drinks. “I apologize for my brother’s behaviour,” he said. “Business here isn’t good, and, well—he’s, um, been under a lot of strain lately...”

“Fuggoff,” muttered the man at the bar.

“Does he drink here for free?” Alistair asked. “Because that might be your business problem.”

“Ha! Ha. Very good,” the bartender said, still sounding terribly nervous.

They each took their drinks—and the bartender continued to stand there, looming over them, his hands fiddling with each other.

“Something wrong?” Nehn asked.

“I’m sorry,” the bartender said. “I heard... did you say... I don’t mean to pry, but... You’re an...” He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper: “ _Assassin?_ ”

The three companions exchanged a glance. “It’s possible,” Zevran said. “Why do you ask?”

The bartender leaned in closer, looked about, and whispered, “ _I might have a job for you._ ”

“Really,” Zevran said. “ _You_ have a job for me? There are actually people in this abandoned little corner of the world who need assassinating?”

“Shhhh! Shh,” the bartender said. “It’s just one target. Simple. Easy. And you’ll be doing the whole town of Dampston a favour. Or... this side of town, at least...”

“A town feud, then?” Zevran said. “Intriguing.”

“Wait, wait—are we actually considering this?” Alistair asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Zevran said. “What do you think, my dear?”

“What are you offering for this?” Nehn asked.

“We haven’t got much in the way of coin, I’m afraid,” the bartender said. “But I _can_ offer you... free ale for life at the Dampston Tavern?”

Zevran laughed. “What? Is that all?”

Alistair glanced at Nehn and urgently whispered, “Free ale?”

Nehn glanced back at Alistair and whispered, “Free ale...”

“Oh,” Zevran said. “Never mind. It seems you have actually stirred some interest among my companions.”

“I mean, you could listen to the terms, at least,” Alistair said. “What’s the harm in that?”

“Why, Alistair, what a shocking ethical turnaround,” Zevran said. “I knew you had it in you somewhere.”

“Look, just—come to the back and speak with me if you’re interested,” the bartender said. “Just give me a chance to explain, please. This will be the easiest job of your life, I promise.” And then he hurried off.

“Did you hear that?” Alistair asked. “The easiest job, he said.”

“I am kind of curious to hear the details, at least,” Nehn said. “What kind of deadly drama could be going on in a little town like this?”

“Also, free ale,” Alistair said. “Did anyone else hear ‘free ale’?”

“Do you really believe this is a bargain?” Zevran asked. “Free ale is a fine prize, but will we even see the Dampston Tavern again in our lives to make use of it?”

“Well, there’s right now,” Alistair said. “Right now is a nice time for free ale.”

“And we will eventually have to go back to Redcliffe, which means coming back this way,” Nehn said. “I’m sure that will also be a nice time for free ale.”

Zevran sighed dramatically. “Oh, very well. Then let us hear these terms... So long as Wynne doesn’t learn of this. She will have my ears off with moralistic nagging for a week at least.”

“That’s actually a good point,” Nehn said. “Wynne will disapprove. She will greatly disapprove.”

The three of them looked at each other for a moment.

“Alistair?” Nehn said. “You stay here. If Wynne comes back, you will make up a very convincing story about where we went that has nothing to do with assassinations. All right?”

“Got it,” Alistair said. “Sit here and drink ale. Will do.”

“Close enough,” Nehn said, and she and Zevran headed off for the back door of the tavern.

They met the bartender out behind the building, in a filthy fenced-in yard that featured a few scraggly chickens scratching and pecking about.

“So, my dear fellow, tell me. Who is this target?” Zevran asked.

“Right,” the bartender said, keeping his voice low. “Her name is Merriment. And she is stealing all of my business. She will be the _ruin_ of Dampston Tavern if we don’t take action.”

“Stealing your business?” Nehn asked. “How so?”

“Everyone used to buy their eggs from me,” the bartender said, gesturing at the chickens pecking around him. “Everyone! From right here in Dampston to Muddleditch just down the road, they all agreed, my eggs were the best, bar none. That kept coin flowing in here. And when people came in to get their eggs, I would convince them to buy a drink, and so... Business was _good_ , I tell you.”

“Until you were bested by this... Merriment, was it?” Zevran asked.

“Yes, exactly. Suddenly Merriment comes along, and now everyone is buying their eggs down there at the next farm, instead of up here. It’s ruining my brother and me. No one comes by here anymore... We’ll have to sell the Dampston Tavern if this keeps up. And that can’t happen. It’s a Dampston _institution_.”

“So, er,” Zevran said, “what happens if we should kill this Merriment? If you are rivals in business, will you not immediately be a suspect behind her death?”

“What? I don’t know. Can’t you make it look like a fox did it?”

“I’m sorry... a fox?”

“I don’t know! You’re the expert,” the bartender said. “Or maybe you could just leave the coop open. Make it look like an accident?”

Zevran raised his brows. “Come again...?”

“Wait,” Nehn said. “Is Merriment a... person?”

“What? No... She’s a chicken.”

Nehn and Zevran exchanged a long glance.

“I mean... I did mention that, didn’t I?” the bartender asked.

“No, I... definitely don’t think that you did,” Nehn said.

“Let me see if I have this correctly,” Zevran said. “You are attempting to hire a world-class assassin... to murder your neighbour’s chicken.”

“You don’t understand, ser,” the bartender said. “She lays so many eggs. She lays so many damned eggs! And they’re incredible eggs. No one can compete with that, do you understand me? No one!”

“Is there no better way?” Zevran asked. “Why not steal this chicken for your own farm? Switch her with one of your... less productive animals?”

“What? Are you insane? I can’t _steal_ Merriment. Everyone from here to Muddleditch knows Merriment. She’s a local celebrity.”

“Uh... huh,” Nehn said.

“She’s very distinctive,” the bartender said. “A beautiful, majestic, snowy-white chicken, with one brown wing. Incredibly unique. It would never go unnoticed if she were here.”

“And you want me to... slay this very majestic chicken.”

“Look, I don’t care _how_ you do it, as long as it means Merriment’s not up there laying eggs and stealing my business,” the bartender said. “She’s ruining me. Please, ser, I beg you. Take pity on a destitute businessman.”

“One moment, please, while we discuss this,” Zevran said, and he put his arm around Nehn’s shoulders as the two of them turned to face the other direction, leaning their heads together, speaking at a whisper: “Is this what all rural Fereldan assassins do?”

“I don’t think there are many ‘rural Fereldan assassins,’ to be honest...”

“For this reason, I suppose,” Zevran said. “On the one hand, this seems utterly ridiculous. On the other hand, how often does a request so utterly ridiculous come along in one’s life?”

“And on the third hand?” Nehn said. “Free ale.”

They turned around again, where the bartender was waiting anxiously for their decision. “Very well, my friend,” Zevran said. “I accept your terms.”

The bartender hurried up to him, grasping Zevran by the hand, shaking it firmly, leaning incredibly close into Zevran’s face. “ _Thank you_.”

Then he put a finger to his lips, pointed across the muddy pasture to a distant chicken coop in the neighbouring fields—and rushed right back inside.

“Well,” Nehn said. “So this is what we’re doing today. Assassinating a chicken.”

“Who could have guessed?” Zevran said. “If Shale ever finds out she missed this, she will be as crushed as one of her pigeons.”

They did a subtle round of the farmer’s field, made sure that no one was about, and then picked a spot to jump the fence. But just as they had dropped down to the other side, Wynne appeared from behind a thicket of shrubs, ambling down the path—she instantly spotted them, then furrowed her brow. “What are you...”

Nehn panicked momentarily, then called out, “Oh, Zevran, I couldn’t possibly wait another minute!”

“Then you will not have to, mi amor!” he said, throwing his arms about her. “Come, let me take you into the shelter of this barn...”

Wynne’s face was quickly painted with disgust. “Maker’s breath.”

“Oh, hello, my dear Wynne!” Zevran said. “I did not see you there.”

“Is this really necessary? Can you two not go even a few _hours_ without—”

“Are you saying you’d rather we wait until we make camp?” Nehn asked.

“Perhaps we should save it all for the thin little tent next to yours...?” Zevran added.

Wynne stared at them for a few moments—then slumped her shoulders with defeat. “Just... please try not to get caught,” she said, and she continued down the path, shaking her head all the while.

Zevran laughed. “What a lovely woman she is, wouldn’t you say?”

“Come on,” Nehn said. “Let’s finish this job...”

* * *

Zevran had gone a little bit pale, some sweat collecting on his brow. “I am sorry, amor,” he said. “This has never happened to me before. It’s really quite embarrassing...”

“What’s wrong, Zev?” Nehn asked.

He stared straight ahead, keeping a firm grip on his dagger, for a good minute. Then he sighed heavily and tucked it back into its sheath.

“I cannot kill this chicken,” he said.

Merriment, in all her fat, contented glory, was staring past them as if she couldn’t be bothered less about their existence.

“Just look at you,” Zevran said, getting on his knees in front of her. “Look at your marvellous plumage! Oh, you’ve never thought a filthy thing in your life, have you? No, you’re just a fluffy, innocent creature, a perfect mother bird, just look at you!”

“Um,” Nehn said. “Zev?”

Zevran was now making affectionate cooing sounds at Merriment, who continued to be completely unmoved.

“You’re kidding me,” Nehn said. “So the great Zevran fails to hit his second straight target? And it’s... _this_ one?”

“Come, now, is it really so bad?” Zevran said. “Some of the most marvellous creatures I know are targets who I’ve failed to kill.”

“And, you know, I sort of thought that was an accomplishment on my part, before I started sharing ranks with chickens.”

“Please, amor,” he said. “I’m certain you must think me pathetic, but... I beg you, do not make me kill the chicken. I simply cannot justify it. It just seems so... unnecessary.”

Merriment flipped her head left and right a few times, then said, “Bwock.”

Nehn laughed. “Oh, come here, Zev,” she said, and she opened her arms, gesturing him in until he joined her in an embrace, amidst the flaps and clucks of the coop. “It’s all right. We don’t have to kill the chicken.”

“This was our contract, though, was it not? Surely we cannot go back on our word.”

“Not exactly,” Nehn said. “The agreement was that we stop her from laying eggs in Dampston. I can think of a few ways we might do that.”

“You make an excellent point, my dear,” Zevran said. “Still—after witnessing two failures in a row, you must think me a remarkably terrible assassin.”

“How many times have you fought at my side now?” Nehn asked. “I know you’re not terrible. I would never think that. Even if you are a bit...”

“Oh, please don’t say it...”

“.......chicken.”

Zevran narrowed his eyes. “You are very cruel indeed.”

* * *

The four companions were once again trudging along the winding road, the sun beginning to set behind them, casting long shadows in front.

“When are we making camp?” Alistair asked, sounding fretful. “I think she’s getting tired.”

“Nonsense, she’s a little soldier,” Zevran said. “Aren’t you, my feathered friend?”

Merriment was still displaying nothing but utter indifference. She was nested up in a makeshift burlap sling against Zevran’s chest, staring blankly ahead, bouncing slightly with every step he took. “Bwock-bwock.”

“Yes, you,” Zevran said. “You beautiful creature, you.”

“Of all things,” Wynne said. “Of all the useful things we could have brought with us from that village, why would you decide to acquire a live chicken?”

“Don’t question it, Wynne,” said Nehn.

“Chicken?” Zevran said. “What chicken? I see no chicken. I see a majestic Crow, soaring along with her brethren!”

To this, Merriment clucked her assent.

“And do you really think we are equipped to care for this new friend of yours?” Wynne asked. “Surely what she needs is a place with a yard and a warm coop...”

“We’re not keeping her forever,” Nehn said. “Once we’re a few towns past Muddleditch, we’ll just sell her to a new farmer who needs himself a fortune in eggs. Nothing but profit.”

“Except for the poor farmer from whom you liberated this chicken.”

“The world is a cruel place, my dear Wynne,” Zevran said. “Sometimes you win some chickens... and sometimes you lose some chickens.”

“Bwockock,” Merriment said.

* * *

That night, Nehn and Zevran laid out their bedrolls together in one tent, as usual, and curled up close with each other, nose to nose. Zevran said, “I must say, I am still feeling a little troubled by what happened during our job today.”

“After all the jobs you’ve told me about, is this really the one that troubles you?”

“Well, this was actually a rather new experience for me. I don’t usually let beautiful women see me in such states of...” He shuddered. “ _Compassion._ ”

“Oh, no,” Nehn said dryly. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about this.”

“You are a generous woman, mi amor.” He ran a few gentle fingers down her cheek. “Perhaps it is all of that unseemly generosity of yours that is making me so soft.”

“So, you’re blaming me for this? Let me remind you for the record that you’re the one who decided to swaddle her up like a baby...”

“I am not _blaming_ you,” he said. “But when you spared my life the way you did... that was a rather miraculous act of compassion, the likes of which I had never seen before. Perhaps I have been a bit... inspired by you, yes?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Nehn said. “I mean, I did spare you at least partially because of your lovely feathers.”

Zevran laughed. “See? I was just trying to tell Alistair about the vital importance of having excellent hair, but he would not listen to me...”

“Oh, poor you, so unappreciated.”

“Alas, it is true,” Zevran said, with a bitter sigh. “Well, no matter. You appreciate me enough for all of the others put together, my dear Nehn.”

Nehn cocked an eyebrow. “So suddenly it’s ‘Nehn,’ now? Not ‘Grey Warden’?”

“I was attempting to express a little sincerity,” Zevran said. “As a... show of appreciation. What do you think? Was it convincing? I worked so incredibly hard on it.”

Nehn laughed. “Keep trying,” she said, and she took him by the chin, as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in for a kiss...

Which was interrupted by an indignant cluck from somewhere within the blankets.

“Excuse me, do you mind?” Nehn said.

“Bwock,” Merriment said.

“Hmmm,” Zevran sighed. “Shame that she’s a chicken and not a rooster. I would have a most excellent joke right now...”

* * *

In the morning, as they gathered up their clothing, they found it: one single perfect egg laid among the blankets.

As Merriment pecked and scratched in the grass by their tents, Zevran fretted over the little pan on the campfire, frying the egg until it was just perfect, and making a big show of not giving it to Wynne.

“You questioned our efforts,” Zevran said. “No egg breakfast for you. This belongs only to the woman who granted freedom to our wondrous chicken!” And then he got on one knee, theatrically offering the egg up to Nehn. “For you, mi amor. The best egg from here to... whatever that other town was called.”

And it actually was pretty incredible.


End file.
